Shade

by Marilyn Peake

  Brandon looked down at the floor. “No. It’s not like that. I’m what people call a ghost. I’m trapped here on Earth until I make amends. I’m not interested in watching living humans in their private moments.”

  “Amends?”

  The word stuck in my throat as the Brandon image disappeared, went the way of his brother in a poof of smoke.

  Had I imagined it all? Was I going nuts? I didn’t think so. Something about Brandon and his brother seemed more real than half the people I knew and half the things that happened to me every day.

  I took off the amulet, hung it around the lamp on my desk and sat down to work on Leotard Girl.

  I stared at the pages. I found it hard to believe that these papers had been torn to shreds and put back together only yesterday.

  Whatever. Damn faeries.

  Damn ghost boy. Sure hoped he couldn’t read my mind.

  I went back to drawing the scene on Mars. Curiosity zipping around, blasting rocks. Then a huge explosion as the little robot blasts a particularly large rock, and the ingredients for super leotards leak out. Hmmm ... What color to make the ingredients? I decide on red, the color of Mars.

  CHAPTER 6

  In Creative Writing class the next day, Mr. Hoffman explained that “the new high school journalists” could create their own passwords to sign into their laptops and showed us how. Life was looking up. I created my password right then and there: AtticAmulet. Piece of cake. I’d never forget that.

  At lunch, Annie waved me over to a table with three other students, all of whom had laptops open in front of them. She introduced me and explained what they were doing. They had all volunteered to write for the high school newspaper. “We’re creating a social forum, so we can communicate with each other and with students at our school who might want to report something we should investigate or just open up a topic for general discussion on the forum.”

  George Williams, a tall guy with long black hair, brushed the bangs out of his eyes. “Yeah, a high school newspaper should be a place for open discussion of hot topics. If no one from the student population brings up sensitive topics, we should do it, get the discussion rolling. What do you think we should talk about, Shade?”

  I had no idea. No one ever asked my opinion. “I don’t know. Fashion, maybe?”

  George looked back down at his computer, seeming to have lost interest in what I had just said. “Sure, sure, we could do that.”

  Annie intervened. “George is our computer whiz. So is Kailee here—Kailee Knight.”

  A cute blonde girl, hair streaked with purple and an earring in her nose, smiled and looked up. “Thanks. Coding is fun.”

  Annie informed me, “We want to cover some really sensitive topics here on our forum. You know, things like bulimia, racism, bullying, cutting.”

  After that last word, I tuned out, heard almost nothing but my nervous heart beating. Did Annie know? Of course not, lots of teenagers probably cut. For all I knew, it would be a popular topic.

  I added something, “So, will we protect the students’ anonymity? Can they be anonymous?”

  Kailee chimed in, “Great idea. That’s a really important point. No one’s going to contribute if they have to be identified. We should allow everyone to create their own username and password. Agreed?”

  Everyone mumbled assent.

  I suddenly realized that I hoped a discussion about cutting would open up. I wanted to know if there were other cutters, what they went through. Maybe children of divorced parents, of alcoholics and drug addicts, too. What did they go through? “When are you hoping to open up the forum to everyone?”

  Kailee answered, “As soon as possible. As soon as we get the computer coding done. Hey, do you know anyone who can add artwork and format the layout of the forum, so that it’s inviting and aesthetically pleasing?”

  “I do artwork.”

  Annie piped up her support. “Yeah, she does. She’s great.” And, in the blink of an eye, I became the Art Director for the Central High School Student Forum and had an offer to have my own art section or cartoon in the print high school newspaper, if I wanted.

  I guess I wanted. I’d never had an artistic outlet that I could share with other people. No one had really expressed an interest in my artwork before.

  When I came home from school, I found Mom cooking dinner, lots of healthy ingredients on the counter, carrots with the leafy stuff still attached. She was chopping up crunchy things, throwing them into a skillet. She said, “Hey, I thought we’d eat early. I’m going out after dinner, OK?”

  Sure. A new man, probably. That usually improved things for a bit, at least until things got bad. I hoped to God this one wouldn’t lead to the new guy moving into the house with us or, even worse, a new Dad. I was so over that concept, it wasn’t even funny. Didn’t need a Dad. Didn’t want a Dad. Seriously. I was going to get my shit together, write like crazy for the high school newspaper, maybe go to college. My best chance in life, really, was for me to go to a good college someplace far away.

  Dinner that night was delicious: beef stew with dumplings, thick homemade dumplings complete with specks of parsley. Oh man, I hadn’t had real food like that in ages.

  Conversation, on the other hand, was awkward.

  Mom: “So, how was your day, honey?”

  Me: “Good. Yours?” Nom nom nom. Stew! With gravy!

  Mom: “Pretty good. I went grocery shopping and made the stew. Homemade cooking takes a lot of time. I had forgotten exactly how long.”

  Me: “Yeah. Well, this is one goddamn great meal.”

  Mom: “Shade, please don’t use that language.”

  Me: “Oh, sure, sorry, Mom.”

  Nom nom nom.

  Two hours later, my mother had transformed herself yet again. Not satisfied with her metamorphosis from pot-smoking alcoholic into the perfect fifties mom-at-the-kitchen-stove, she was dressed up like someone’s attractive date. She actually looked normal: black skirt, white blouse, heels, makeup that looked as though it had been properly applied by sponge rather than splattered by paintball gun or applied by monkeys.

  My mom twirled around in front of me. “How do I look?”

  “Great. Really good, actually.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to the library, then out to do some shopping. Don’t wait up.”

  Apparently, a monkey typing at a typewriter had made up that lame response. Or some loser at a Chinese fortune cookie factory had run out of brilliant ideas just as they got ready to type the words for future-explanations-to-your-teenaged-daughter-when-you’re-actually-going-out-on-a-date on their little strip of fortune paper that my mother later received. Whatever. My mother actually thought I’d fall for it.

  After my mom left the house, I retrieved my new amulet from its hiding place and put it around my neck for inspiration. Nothing weird happened this time except that I did my homework right away and then started working on the format design for our high school student forum. I started with our school colors, black and gold, and our mascot, a striped tiger.

  I fell asleep after drawing a black-and-gold striped tiger that looked powerful but approachable.

  In my dream, I saw Brandon’s little brother walk over to my desk, drink a bottle of paint, run out of my room and go tumbling down the stairs. I heard a large crash, followed by my mother yelling, “Hey, I’m trying to sleep down here!” I ran out into the hallway and saw Neil’s body at the bottom of the stairs, his forehead crushed in and his neck bent at a disturbing angle.

  I woke up, screaming.

  CHAPTER 7

  By October, my life had changed quite a bit.

  My mother actually had days of sobriety. I settled in at Central High School. Annie remained my friend. I became pretty good friends with the other kids writing for the newspaper, which was called The Tiger’s Tale, and working on the school forum, which we named The Tiger’s Den.

  The Tiger’s Den actually became pretty popular and kids started to confide all sorts of privat
e stuff. Some of it shook us up. A couple of times, we had to go to Principal Lafferty to see if we needed to get professionals involved.

  With the help of the School Psychologist, Dr. Liz Campbell, we managed to talk a suicidal student into making an appointment with her office to talk things over. Until we heard back that they had actually met with Dr. Campbell, we were pretty crazed ourselves, thinking we had gotten in way over our heads. Instead, after things turned out well, we got a letter of congratulations from the School Board.

  Once, we thought we needed to call the police to report someone’s physically abusive father; but it turned out Dr. Campbell could handle that, too, if the student met with her. Miraculously, the student followed through and contacted the Psychologist based on our recommendation.

  Students trusted us when they admitted things to us—in some cases, things they had hidden from the world for many years. I tried to live up to my new responsibility.

  By mid-October, I had stopped cutting. Every time I felt tempted, I thought about the cutters in The Tiger’s Den. Their stories unnerved me. A number of students even posted photos—partial body photos of the private places that mattered: sliced arms and wrists, stomachs and legs. One was particularly bad. It showed signs of infection. I was assigned the job of talking her into seeing a doctor. My hands shook while I typed my half of the conversation. She went to the Emergency Room. She asked me to meet her there.

  I was shocked when I walked into the hospital waiting room of bright lights, signed in at the Visitor’s Desk and was allowed to meet with Jane Doe ... who wasn’t Jane Doe at all; but turned out to be gorgeous, perky Little Miss Cheerleader Misty Perkins. Her cuts had been inflicted on her lower stomach where they couldn’t be seen even with her short-short skirts and midriff-baring sweaters.

  I walked into a partitioned area of the Emergency Room only wide enough to hold Misty’s bed, but not private enough to block out the sounds of pain and medical staff efficiency happening on either side of her flimsy cloth curtains masquerading as walls. I swallowed a lump of jealousy I always get around cheerleaders, this one threatening to get stuck in my throat and choke me silent.

  I did my job. I gave Misty the best pep talk I could. I offered congratulations for her courage in coming forward and getting help.

  The next day, I quit cutting. I gave it up as a dieter gives up chocolate—I promised myself I could go back whenever I wanted. Every so often, I took out my bowl and knife and razor and looked at them longingly.

  As the days approached Halloween, Annie decided we needed to visit a haunted house. It felt like old times when I went every year with my best friend Mary Jane.

  I texted Mary Jane. She approved.

  I redesigned The Tiger’s Den, got it ready for Halloween. I had hoped to temporarily change the lettering at the top of the forum’s main page from simply The Tiger’s Den to something like Happy Halloween in The Tiger’s Den, but I had to work within a lot of constraints. The religious right in our school district had forced our schools to abandon the celebration of anything called Halloween. I couldn’t use the word itself, nothing labeled Halloween or Happy Halloween or anything like that, in the forum title.

  I did some research. I thought maybe we could use All Hallow’s Eve, but that wasn’t allowed for reasons that seemed contradictory to each other. Some people on the religious right considered All Hallow’s Eve as pagan as the term Halloween. Other religious people outside the Catholic religion claimed that the Catholic Church had seized upon All Hallow’s Eve as a religious day and, therefore, strict separation of Church and State demanded that All Hallow’s Eve not be celebrated in public schools.

  Central High School and most of the schools in our district had solved their Halloween Party dilemma by hosting Fall Festivals rather than Halloween Parties, but I thought Fall Festival sounded too lame for an online high school forum. Despite the Fall Festival title, by the way, most of the get-togethers with that title featured ghosts, goblins, witches, Frankensteins and all the rest of Halloween’s traditional thrills and chills. The invitations sent out to the public, however, were pretty bland: mostly fall leaves and such, nothing to alarm those forever vigilant against pagan practices and devil worship.

  I thought about using Day of the Dead as a title, maybe even the Mexican interpretation, Dia de los Muertos, possibly topping the forum’s main page with the words, Welcome to Dia de los Muertos. That holiday carries an association with the dead similar to Halloween; but it’s more real, more spiritual. It’s a celebration from October 31 through November 2 when the Mexican people actually believe that their ancestors come back to visit them. I thought this sounded spooky enough to carry the general vibe of Halloween, while also providing education about the Mexican culture and a friendly welcome to the Mexican students in our high school.

  I took the Day of the Dead idea to Mr. Hoffman, as I felt pretty sure it had enough educational merit to fly, but it was dead in the water the second Mr. Hoffman opened his mouth to respond. The Day of the Dead was a religious holiday, so we couldn’t celebrate it in school. But, also, something I hadn’t thought about: many students turned to The Tiger’s Den in times of crisis and a greeting like Welcome to The Day of the Dead would be downright creepy and in incredibly poor taste to students arriving there to discuss suicidal thoughts.

  Sometimes I find myself so hopelessly tone deaf to emotional overtones, I wonder if that’s why I cut—to reconnect with my emotions, to just experience the normal feelings that other people experience naturally, without effort. How could I have been so dumb, so insensitive to the students who turn to our forum with depression and thoughts of suicide? Welcome to Dia de los Muertos? Welcome to The Day of the Dead? Seriously? Idiot.

  I must have blushed a million shades of red in front of Mr. Hoffman. I felt so incompetent, so stupid. I feared he’d take the job of Art Director for the Forum away from me. But he didn’t. He remained completely calm, as though he was just advising me, acting as my supervisor, letting me know what was and wasn’t allowed at Central High School.

  OK. I could work with that.

  I came up with the forum heading, Welcome to Our Haunted House. The Haunted House suggested Halloween, while also carrying a meaning that those in trouble clearly understood at a very deep and visceral level: we are haunted by psychological demons that visit a lot more often than that one day of the year when others celebrate both candy and fright. We lived with fright at the core of our beings.

  I received permission from Mr. Hoffman who received permission from Principal Lafferty to draw a haunted house in The Tiger’s Den, with ghosts flying up the sides of the forum web pages, pumpkins on the front steps of the dilapidated old house and other such stuff.

  As I got deeper into the artwork, I gave one ghost green eyes and, floating next to him, a little brother ghost. I thought Brandon might appreciate the nod to him and Neil.

  Brandon hadn’t appeared to me since that night in September when he had explained to me about the amulet.

  As I worked at my bedroom desk to perfect the details of the ghost and his brother, I thought about Brandon and wished he would return. I put the necklace around my neck. Nothing. No effect whatsoever. The attic’s appearance stayed the same, didn’t change at all, even when I tried squinting at my surroundings to make them blur a bit.

  Brandon didn’t appear. Neil didn’t appear. Apparently, I was on my own in the world this side of the spiritual realm.

  For the rest of the time leading up to Halloween, I immersed myself in art. The Welcome to Our Haunted House format, approved by both Mr. Hoffman and Principal Lafferty, worked beyond simply providing decoration for our high school forum. At the top of the web page, I drew an elaborate haunted house with lots of intricate details: spiderwebs along the eaves and in the corners of windowpanes, a jack-o’-lantern sitting on the top front step with golden light pouring through the eyes and mouth of the face of Principal Lafferty carved into its orange skin—students really loved that when they dis
covered it, a witch’s broom leaning against a tree. This caught the attention of a lot of students who didn’t normally visit the forums and some stopped by to chat. Some confided problems they hadn’t shared before.

  Experiencing success with that, I turned my attention to Leotard Girl. I created a scene in which she received the laser beam in her forehead. She was sitting in class, daydreaming about some guy she had a crush on. He was cute: blonde, artistic type, holding a guitar. Her teacher asked her a question about something really intelligent. I Googled science news and came up with the topic of the Higgs Boson. So, her teacher, Mrs. Watts, asks her a question, “Jane, what is the significance of the Higgs Boson? Why are scientists so interested in determining if it exists?” OK, technically that was two questions; but Jane Smith didn’t hear either one of them.

  Her teacher keeps asking, “Jane? Jane?”

  The class starts giggling. God, I know that experience all too well. But Jane’s oblivious. The thought bubbles above her head continue to flood with details of her crush. He’s pretty muscular. He surfs.